


Killing Me Softly

by dreabean



Category: Fallout 4
Genre: AU, Consensual Infidelity, F/F, F/M, Multi, Other, Poly, Porn, SPOILERS SPOILERS SPOILERS, Sex Toys, Synth!Deacon, Synths, i believed deacon and now i feel dumb, no not Fisto, robot porn, voyerism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-30
Updated: 2015-12-30
Packaged: 2018-05-10 09:36:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,324
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5580547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreabean/pseuds/dreabean
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A prompt from the kinkmeme: it's long but it boils down to this <i>A Head canon that has synths lacking the appropriate parts, but still feeling sexual arousal and simulation cerebrally.</i></p><p>As a note, I'm well aware that Deacon is human. The kinkmeme prompter asked for Synth!Deacon. Since I was one of many who believed Deacon's lie for probably 60 hours of play time before I figured it out, I wrote this as though Deacon is a synth. </p><p>Deacon and Whisper are partners in crime. It helps that he's in love with her. It doesn't help that he's an incomplete synth without the right bits and pieces. Turns out Whisper doesn't care. Deacon can work with that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Killing Me Softly

**Author's Note:**

> This is pretty much an excuse to write porn and brush up on my skills. For those of you following "Only Today" the only reason I managed to porn it up there is because of this story. Just a bit of fun while I tinker with other things. 
> 
> Also Deacon, whyyy can I not romance him? Sad.

The first time he realizes he wants to kiss her, they’re sitting at the bar in Bunker Hill. Her mouth is bruised, her eye is black and she’s smiling like she didn’t almost die. “Got me right in the face,” she’s explaining to Tony as he slides her more Nuka, and she gestures to the blackening skin across the right side of her face. “I think it’s hand was as big as my head.”

“It was a super mutant,” Deacon drawls, catching her attention. “Of course it’s hand was as big as your head.”

She looks doubtful, holding her hand up towards the sun, fingers splayed. “I’ll get Strong to give a measurement back at Sanctuary,” she says, swiveling on the stool to face him. 

Deacon is one hundred percent certain he doesn’t want to watch that conversation happen. “Please don’t let Strong pick you up by the face,” he groans, only to watch her laugh.

She leans in to him, close - too close - and kisses his cheek. “I knew you cared,” she says, against the unbruised skin of his face. 

Jesus, sweetheart, he thinks, not for the first time, you’re killing me here.

She talks to Tony for only a little longer, before giving Deacon a look he’s fondly labeled, ‘I’m bored, let’s move on.’ They’ve been traveling together a while now, long enough that he has the time and inclination to label the minutia of her expressions. The only person he’s traveled with longer is Glory - when they escaped together. 

Despite the number of years they’ve known each other, he’s never once wanted to label Glory’s face. That, more than anything else, tells him he’s in trouble. Because he loves Whisper, of course he does. Everyone loves Whisper, who wouldn’t? She collected a ragtag bunch of Wastelander freaks and made them into a family. 

Anyone out in the world would love someone for that. (He’s not like Piper, who calls her Blue and finds any excuse to touch, but nor is he like the tin-can who blushes and stammers and awkwardly finds any excuse not to touch, and he’s definitely not like the loud mouth kid with the hat who spends all his time staring and none of his time talking). 

He’s more like Nick than anyone else, and Nicky V touches her when he likes and maybe if he were a Gen-3 he’d blush when she flirted, but he’s a prototype trash can so he doesn’t and he can’t. But for all Whisper’s charm, for all her flirtation and piss-poor boundaries, she’s never taken a companion to bed. 

“Deacon,” she says. “Deaacon.” She has a tone about her that says she’s been repeating his name about a hundred times. Her too warm hands are on his face, framing him gently and her nose is an inch away. He could kiss her from this position easily. 

He manages to focus on her eyes instead of her lips and he’s never been more thankful for his sunglasses than he is now. “What?” he snipes back at her, waving off her hands. “I was planning our next grand adventure.”

She rolls her eyes, but takes a step back. “Our next grand adventure is already planned out, sir space cadet,” she quips and points to the map on her pipboy. “To Murkwater Construction! Wherever the hell that is.”

Laughing quietly, he turns her wrist so he can actually see the map. Wherever the hell that is turns out to be pretty damn far south. “We should stop and get supplies,” he says. 

“Goodneighbor is the closest,” she says, flicking around on the map. “Well, the closest with actual supplies.” 

Deacon manages to suppress his annoyed wince, but only just. He really, really doesn’t like Goodneighbor. Not because of the ghouls, though. Just one of them. The Mayor is another one of their compatriots, a flamboyantly dressed boy-ghoul with a fake name, and Deacon loves Whisper but she’s so oblivious it actually pains him. 

Hancock pants after her with absolutely zero subtlety, but she doesn’t react even the slightest bit. 

“Sure,” he agrees. “To Goodneighbor.”

Whisper just laughs, and despite the bruising on her face, she gives him a sweet smile. “You’re the best, Deac,” she says. “My favorite.”

It’s probably a lie, but she’s as good as he is and he just can’t tell.

*

He doesn’t remember much of the Institute, only that someone else got him and G1-07 out. That same someone had dragged them to Goodneighbor and gotten Amari to take all the memories of their escape out of their heads then left before he’d woken up. The stuff of legends, it was not. When he tells people about his life now, when he talks about his wife, he tells them she’s the synth. He tells them about the Claws and how he’d killed them all because they killed her. 

Most of that is a lie. He did kill them all, that part is true. He also killed his wife, in his Institute stupor. But D3-46 has always kept secrets too well. So when Whisper tells him that the bathroom is all his in the morning at the Rexford, her eyes still bleary with sleep and her face half purple and swollen, he just goes into the room and leans against the door. 

He doesn’t know how to tell her he’s lacking the parts required. 

They go for breakfast at the Third Rail, and she cuddles into his side, shoving at his arm until it drops over her shoulders. She tucks her head under his chin and he sighs, leaning his cheek on the cap of her hair. “You can’t be that tired,” he murmurs, even as she presses closer. 

“You snore,” she mutters back, promptly. “And this stupid world doesn’t have coffee anymore.” 

He laughs, jostling her enough that she separates from him with a low growl. “I’ll get you a Nuka Quantum.”

That clears any irritation from her face almost instantly and she smiles brightly. “You don’t have to, those are so expensive.”

“Anything for you, sweetheart,” he drawls. 

He doesn’t actually mean to say that, and he clicks his teeth together with an audible sound. Her face reflects her own surprise, before a shy smile wipes it away. “Well,” she says quietly. “Then, thank you.”

If he were any kind of man, he’d reach out and touch her, cup her cheek or tuck her messy hair behind her ear. Instead, Deacon just nods, sliding out of the booth. “Sure,” he says. “You can owe me one.”

Somehow, despite the fact that he keeps his voice as modulated as possible, it still comes out sounding sexual. Whisper bites her lip, her smile only getting wider, and Deacon makes his escape. After cajoling Charlie into giving him the Quantum for way less than it was priced for, Deacon turns back around to find Hancock has taken his place at their table, leaning into Whisper’s space. 

He takes a second to push down his expression, strolling up to her and depositing the drink at her elbow. “On your left,” he murmurs, and sits across from her instead of trying to weasel back into his spot. Hancock gives him a friendly smile which only serves to make him feel bad about disliking the ghoul so much. “Morning,” he says, and props his head on his hand. “Sorry that took so long, Charlie was being a hard ass again.”

Whisper grins at him, sipping at her Quantum happily. “He is made of metal, Deac.” She turns her head slightly to include Hancock, and asks, “anything to report around here? We’re heading South as soon as I’m caffeinated enough to move.” 

Hancock’s easy smile slips off his face as soon as she says the word south and he leans in a little. “How far south?” 

She shrugs indolently, pulling up the map on her pip-boy again. “Past Quincy.” At the alarmed look Hancock shoots her, she laughs. “We’re going to avoid it, stop worrying.” She transfers her gaze to Deacon. “Besides, I’ll hardly be alone. Deacon is with me.”  
That’s certainly high praise coming from her and Deacon blinks twice behind his glasses. There’s a soft, warm feeling in his chest and he has to swallow around a sudden lump in his throat. He could kill his designers at the Institute for making him feel this way.

He’s been so lost in thought that he’s a little startled when Whisper stands, holding out a hand for him to take. “I’ll check in when we get back,” she’s saying to Hancock. “If you make your way to Sanctuary, you’ll get a check in sooner.”

“Sure,” the ghoul says, his eyes on Deacon. “I’ll be there with bells on.”

Whisper frowns, a little doubtful. “That doesn’t seem very stealthy, John,” she says. “At least wait to put the bells on after you arrive safely.”

She has to do it on purpose. There’s no way she doesn’t understand the idiom, considering how old she actually is, and Deacon smothers a smile. Hancock walks them out of Goodneighbor, chatting with Daisy as they stock up on stimpaks and ammo, and other things that might make the trip easier. 

It’s a little after nine in the morning when they’re finally on their way, and Deacon pretends for Whisper’s sake not to notice that Hancock had leaned in as though for a kiss and gotten her cheek very pointedly instead.

He also pretends - for both their sakes - that he’s not ecstatic about that fact.

*

The radstorm surprises both of them, as they make their way back north from Murkwater. The sudden ticking of her geiger counter is very loud in the wilderness, and Deacon half turns to look behind them. “Time to move,” he says, and they race forward, trying to keep ahead of the green fog that rolls in from the south.

Her pip-boy chimes with a proximity alert, and she skids to a stop in front of the doors to what looks like an abandoned hospital. “Oh,” she breathes, “I’ve been here. This is Milton General.”

They’ve been traveling together long enough now that most of the time her pre-war insights don’t faze him, but sometimes, just knowing that she’s retracing her steps two hundred years in the future is a bit much to handle.

The first crack of radiation slams into them and she ducks away, shoving the door open with her shoulder.

Once safe inside the main floor of the hospital, Whisper stops for a moment to root through her pack for some radaway. “Here,” she says, tossing him a package. “We’ll check for ghouls, but it sounds pretty quiet.” 

It doesn’t take them long to find a mostly intact room with only one doorway and door that actually locks. It’s quite the find really, considering most of the other rooms are collapsed inward or filled with some kind of fungus. Once she lights a lamp and they set out their sleeping bags, Whisper roots around in her bag again. 

“Might as well get comfortable,” she says, her face tilted downward. “We should probably stay here until morning.”

“Sure,” Deacon says, settling down on the floor. “You got any food in there, Mary Poppins?”

She looks up, both eyebrows raised. “How the hell do you know who Mary Poppins is?” 

That’s actually a good question because Deacon doesn’t know. “You’re not confused when I quote Shakespeare - or even when a hulking super mutant goes around quoting Macbeth - but Mary Poppins, that’s what gets you?”

Whisper’s eyes narrow and she puts the bag down on her lap to look at him steadily. “That was a poor evasion, especially for you.”

He tsks, looking down. “Fine, you caught me. I’m a lot older than I look.”

“Ooh, I get a straight answer,” she teases, and goes back to rooting around her backpack. “Here.” She passes off some jerky and a bottle of purified water. “Once I get the hot plate warm enough I have the ingredients for stew,” she says absently. “And way more beer than I was expecting. No wonder Drinking Buddy is my favorite robot.”

Jesus, he thinks for the millionth time, she really is killing him. Her assured movements, the economy of her motion as she hacks into the electronic system to connect the hot plate is stupidly attractive. “So,” he says, a trifle hoarsely. “What will we do in the meantime?”

Her smile is pure evil. “Let’s play a game, Deac,” she purrs, and he really is in trouble.

*

The Bobrov brother’s moonshine really is strong as hell, Deacon reflects as Whisper laughs herself silly over one his more elaborate lies. “Alright, fine,” he drawls, only half faking his exasperation. “You tell one then.”

She rotates her wrist, sloshing beer over the edge of her cracked glass. “Let me think,” she murmurs, her face tinged red from the lantern at her knee. “I really want to kiss you right now.”

Deacon snorts a laugh, toasting her with the last of his moonshine. “You win, Whisper,” he says, still chuckling. “Lie.”

Her lips twitch upwards in a smirk and she puts her beer down with a decisive thud. “Really not.”

That brings him up short, lowering his bottle slowly. “Wh-- But. You could have anyone. Your tin-can Paladin, or Scrappy McThieverson.”

“Mm,” she agrees. “Or Piper, or Cait, or Preston. They’re all lovely people, Deac. But they’re not you.”

The conversation had started out so well, liquor and laughter, and stories… but now it’s taken a turn for the terrifying and Deacon has no idea how to proceed. “Let’s just put a pin in that for a second,” he says finally. “It’s my turn now.”

He hopes he’s not imagining the disappointment in her eyes but she nods, and says, “Okay. Hit me with your best shot.”

“I’m a synth,” he blurts out. Her lips part in surprise, and he hurries to keep talking before she can laugh and call him a liar again. “No, really. This one isn’t a line. Look, I know you’ve wondered why I never take off my sunglasses and this is why. I’m not one of those fancy Gen-3’s that have all the right parts. I’m a Gen-2b, kind of like Nicky is a Gen-1b.” He tugs the glasses off his face and shows her his eyes.

He knows from cloudy mirrors that his eyes are blue, but they’re power rimmed and pupiless like Valentine’s. “Holy shit,” she breathes. 

“I uh, just thought you should know, before you… said anything you might regret.” 

Whisper stands up, her movements sharp and jerky. He tenses, expecting her to storm past him, but instead she drops into his lap, her thighs bracketing his. “I don’t regret anything,” she says, and they’re pressed so intimately together he can feel the heat pouring off her body. “My turn again: I’m going to kiss you now.”

She doesn’t pause long enough for him to protest, and once their lips are crushed together, he reflects that it’s a good thing she didn’t. The kiss is perfection, open mouthed and aggressive as she licks into his mouth. He kisses back, wrapping his arms around her waist to drag her closer, tangling his tongue with hers.

He knows there’s something else he should mention but it’s really hard to concentrate on that at the moment. It’s not until she rolls her hips down against him with a ragged moan that cuts off in surprise. “Deac?” she asks, and experimentally presses herself against him again.

Oh. Right. He sighs, dropping his head to her shoulder. “I told you I wasn’t a gen-3,” he says. “They didn’t bother to build me all the right parts.” He presses a kiss to the exposed skin of her collarbone. “Which would be fine if they didn’t also give me a proto-human brain with the ability to become aroused beyond belief.”

Whisper’s hand snakes between them and presses gently between his legs and it feels… good, but not… “I’m so sorry, Deac,” she says, and kisses the tip of his ear. It gives him a full body shiver and her wicked smile is enough for him. 

“If you want this,” he says seriously, his eyes on hers, “then we’ll make it work.”

Her smile softens around the edges and she nods. “I want this. I want you.”

He searches her expression for any sign of deceit, and finds nothing but honest desire. “Alright,” he whispers softly, hoarsely. Deacon kisses her again, dragging her closer by the hips and slipping her slightly to one side to grind his thigh between her legs. Whisper shudders hard, jerking down and whimpering. “ _Jesus, sweetheart,_ ” he groans against her mouth, “You are _killing_ me here.” 

Whisper pulls back about an inch, pressing a kiss to his cheek and rolling her hips against his. “What can I do? For you?”

Hooking his hands under her thighs, he tumbles them sideways onto the sleeping bag. “What you can do right now, is scream my name when you come,” he says. “We can talk logistics later.” 

Teeth digging into her lip, Whisper arches her back to press against him. “You’ll have to work for it,” she says and she winks. He grins back, and tugs at her jeans until she raises her hips so he can peel them off. Deacon’s momentarily derailed when he realizes that she’s not wearing anything under them, which makes her grin widen.

He kisses a path from her lips to her thighs, spreading her legs by smoothing his palms over her. She groans quietly, fisting her hands in the sleeping bag. She’s already wet from just a few kisses, he can see it on her skin before he even touches her. “Deac?” she murmurs, when all he does is stroke his fingers up and down the insides of her thighs.

“Just savoring the view,” he replies and presses his lips to her. Jesus fuck, she tastes divine, and _clean_ in a way that the others before her didn’t. She cries out gratifyingly, rolling her hips up against his mouth. He licks at her like a starving man, spreading her open wide to suck her clit into his mouth.  
That makes her shriek like a mad thing, her hips jackknifing up. “Fuck,” she swears with feeling. The servos in his brain whir happily, sparking pleasure up and down his spine. Her fingers scramble at the material of the sleeping bag, pulling hard. He slides a finger into her, and her whine makes his hips grind down uselessly. 

She cries his name when he curls his finger into her, shakes and twists when he presses his teeth gently to her clit. He can feel the perfect tension in her body and he adds a second finger. “Fuck,” she whines, and spreads her legs wider, giving him more room. 

Deacon flicks his tongue in all the right ways, thrusting his fingers as hard as he he dares. He knows he’s doing something right when her thighs shake, and with the sound of ripping fabric, she shrieks his name, legs slamming closed around him. 

He finger fucks her through the orgasm, wondering if he can bring her to another one until she pushes gently at his shoulder with still trembling fingers. “Holy fuck,” she says, panting, as he moves up her body. “You can do that any time,” she adds when he lays next to her. 

“Whatever you want,” he agrees with a smirk. “I told you, we’ll figure it out. I like doing that - and other things. If you want to get fucked, we’ll find someone to fuck you.”

It makes her pause, and she glances at him meeting his eyes without hesitation. “That wouldn’t bother you?”

He shakes his head. “So long as I could watch? No, sweetheart. I wouldn’t be bothered at all.”

Whisper pillows her chin on his chest, the sharp point digging into the fleshing space between metal ribs. “Have I…” she murmurs quietly, the words falling from her mouth like grenades, “have I ever told you about Nate?”

Deacon has a brief moment of utter panic that he hopes he doesn’t show on his face. “Isn’t it normally a bad thing to talk about stuff like that with your new lovers?”

“Maybe,” Whisper says, and links their fingers. “But since you just made me come hard enough to see stars and stop feeling my feet, I thought you deserved from honesty. One time offer.”

There’s a lingering sadness in her face so Deacon squeezes her hand, and says, very quietly, “sure, tell me about Nate.”

She tells him about how they met, how Nate was a witness in a court martial, how he’d waited around the courthouse every day until she’d finally come out, asked her out to dinner. How he’d gone to Anchorage, Alaska and come back a different man. How he’d been unable to give her intimacy for years, how they’d had a close family friend who she’d been with when Nate wanted to watch.  
“The first time Nate and I were able to be together after Anchorage, I got pregnant with Shaun,” she says with a short laugh. “We were in a public place for chrissakes, a goddamn park.” 

Deacon snorts a laugh, running his fingers through her short hair. “Sounds like you.”

She slapped his chest. “It does not! I was respectable!” 

Laughing, he catches her fingers, squeezing lightly. “Real respectable, a military lawyer who almost got arrested for public indecency.”

“Psh,” she tsks. “You don’t even know what I did as a lawyer.”

Deacon rolls his eyes, rolling them over so she’s laying on her back and he’s draped over her. “I know that you probably should have chosen the name Charmer as a code,” he comments and she hmms contemplatively. 

He’s choosing to ignore that he doesn’t actually know her real name, that Piper calls her ‘Blue’ and Nick calls her ‘doll’, and he calls her ‘Whisper’ and Codsworth, the only other sentient to know her name calls her ‘mum’. 

She arches her back just enough to rub her naked lower half against him, biting her lip. It makes his throat click, his heart (or whatever it was in there) skip a beat or several and he leans down to kiss her gently. He slips his leg between hers, her skin is warm, almost burning even through his jeans. 

Whisper shudders into his kiss, arching her hips to rub herself against his thigh. “Fuck,” she says, eyes a little wild. “God, it’s been so long.”

The corner of his lips turn up, and he grinds his leg down, feeling the wet center of her soak through his pants. “You gonna come like this, sweetheart?” he asks, and his voice is shot, rough and fucked out despite his lack of orgasms or appropriate attire. When she moans something like an agreement, he slides one hand under her shirt to cup her breasts, finding her nipple under her wraps. 

Whisper groans so loudly it echoes, and her back arches like a perfect bow. The consequences of that position are grand, and Deacon grinds down against her then drags his leg back up. She shrieks and her hands fist in his jacket, her body convulsing. With his free hand, he slides down her body, pulling her open so the meat of his thigh pressing hard and perfect against her clit. 

“Oh my god,” she shrieks again, “sensitive!” He’s not sure if that’s meant to be a caution or an encouragement. 

So Deacon flexes his thigh against her, and the gush of wetness that soaks into his pant leg is all the encouragement he needs. He does it again, rubbing as lightly as he can against her, rolling his palm against her pebbled nipples. “Good?” he asks, and when Whisper opens her eyes they’re glazed and tear wet. 

“So fucking good,” she groans, wrecked. 

He kisses the side of her neck. “Gonna come for me, sweetheart?” he asks and she nods desperately. Deacon shoves his thigh against her, and she jerks hard, crying out his name. Before she can slump to the bed, he shifts his weight from her core, and presses his thigh against hers, holding her legs open.

Before she can protest, he slips his hand further down her body, sliding two fingers inside her and grinding the palm of his hand against her clit. “Oh fuck!” she shrieks again, her body slamming up into his. “Oh god, Deac, please, I can’t come again!”

Her insides flutter around him and he kisses her cheek. “I think you can.” 

She just shakes her head wildly against the bedding, tears running down her cheeks as she sobs her pleasure. “Fuck,” Whisper whines. “Fuck please, move your hand, move your hand!”

Deacon rotates his wrist, dragging his fingers around and thrusts them out hard and fast. When she comes another moment later, her body clenches so hard he has trouble pulling away. “Fuck,” he murmurs and kisses her again. 

Arousal is humming inside his head, his skin shocky and buzzing with it. He flips over onto his back laying next to her on the bedding. “You’re telling me,” she says and curls into him. “I wish there was something I could do for you.”

“I like seeing you scream,” he comments, and grins when she shoves his shoulder. “Go to sleep Whisper. We’re due in Sanctuary some time before the end of the week.”

She presses against him, back arching a little. “They can wait.”

Deacon leans up on one elbow, kissing her briefly before tapping her nose. “You told too many people you’d be back ASAP, Whisp.”

She meets him halfway, sliding her fingers up and under the wig he’d worn that day. “So long as you’re with me,” she says. The words are a condescension but the tone is not. 

“For you?” he drawls. “Always.”

He’s in way too deep to back out now.

*  
tbc


End file.
